At once feeling peckish, he delved into his breeches and found the halfpenny that Sep Kendrew had given him. He had not wanted to spend it, had fully intended to throw the coin away, but could not bring himself to do so. Resolve weakened, he used it now to purchase a bag of lozenges. The woman in the shop looked upon him kindly as she handed over the bag. Encouraged, he wanted to boast, ‘I can count to fifty!’ but was far too reserved.
Instead, he drifted on to the medieval Shambles where he perched on a cobbler’s window ledge to eat his sweets. A youth came out of the shop and ordered him to move. His mind on other things, Nat paid no heed. The youth grabbed his bag of lozenges, stuck one in his mouth and the rest in his pocket. Nat leaped up to object. The youth picked him up under the armpits, carried him a few yards to a butcher’s shop and hung him on a hook between the dripping joints of beef. Then, while Nat squirmed and grew red in the face, the youth crammed his mouth full of Nat’s lozenges and gloated for a while before his master called him back to work.
Nat wriggled and kicked until he heard an ominous rip which stilled him. He hung there, petrified and tormented by bluebottles. The butcher, who had been enjoying the entertainment from inside the shop, now took pity and lifted him down, warning him that he would be in for it when his mother saw his ripped jacket. As Nat passed the cobbler’s the youth took out his bag of lozenges and taunted him with it. Nat stuck out his tongue and then ran.
Shortly afterwards he had a stroke of unaccustomed luck: amongst the rubbish in the gutter his observant eye glimpsed a sixpence. He was about to pounce on it, but then thought it more expedient to hide it under his foot until he ascertained whether anyone was watching him. In possession of so much money, his first thought was that he would buy his mother a gift. Entering a shop he was about to purchase another bag of lozenges, intended for her, when he noticed a card displaying toy watches. A watch! He had always wanted one, but they were sixpence each. He could not afford both items.
When he emerged from the shop he was wearing the little tin watch suspended from a button on his jacket by a piece of elastic, and feeling splendidly rich. His mother would understand – the thought had been there.
The remainder of the morning was given to twisting the little knob that moved the watch hands round and round. He had assumed that being in possession of a time-piece would automatically render him with the time, and was annoyed that this turned out to be fallacious. After the novelty wore thin, he went back to practising his counting and when he met up with Bright he was able to announce triumphantly, ‘I can count to tenty!’ Her confusion was answered when Nat, after reciting up to ninety-five, continued, ‘Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, tenty.’
She couldn’t prevent a giggle. ‘It’s not tenty! It’s a hundred.’
‘How can it be?’ Nat was forceful. ‘You say eighty and ninety don’t you? It must be tenty.’ Bright tried to explain, but he refused to accept that he was wrong. ‘You don’t know everything! I’m telling you it’s tenty.’
Bright gave up. Nat was a know-all, but there was something about him that invoked compassion in her – the mistiness of those blue eyes was at odds with the defiance in his voice and the belligerence of his manner. Young as she was, Bright recognized that he was deeply wounded and trying not to show it, and she felt ashamed of herself for mocking his achievement. They walked in silence the rest of the way up Walmgate. When they parted, he said out of the blue, ‘Anyway, I’ve got a watch and you haven’t!’ Then he went home to canvas his mother’s praise.
The room was empty. He cut a piece of bread from a loaf, which sufficed as lunch. Whilst he was eating this, Sister Theresa called to see his mother, but finding her not at home sat and talked to Nat for a while. To the boy she was just a friend of his mother’s; he was not to know that Sister Theresa had made it her special mission to reform and convert prostitutes. The girls endured her interference, partly because she was nice to them but mainly because she never came empty-handed. Today she gave Nat a piece of ginger cake and, whilst he devoured it, asked how his education was coming along. He said proudly that he could count as far as tenty now. To his mortification, the nun laughed uproariously and told him the same as Bright. There was no question of apologizing, but when Bright came out of school that afternoon Nat was there with a sheepish face, telling her she could still teach him to read and count if she wanted to.
She flashed her warm, gummy smile, said that she would and danced out of the yard to walk alongside him. He showed her his watch, upon which she was still eulogizing when a war cry went up to their rear. ‘Aagh! Kill the English bastaaard!’
Bright spun round to see three boys from her school. ‘Come on run, they’re gonna hit ye!’ She tugged at Nat’s sleeve, but he was too slow. The Catholic boys were on him before he could react. They rained blows upon his crouched back, arms windmilling, boots scuffling, whilst Bright tried desperately to wrest them away.
Then another figure waded into the affray. Robes flowing, Sister Martha burst upon the scene, her winged wimple like a dove taking flight. ‘John Kelly, you uncivilized rogue!’ She took a handful of the culprit’s red hair, delivered a punch and threw him aside as if he were waste paper before dealing each of the other participants – including Nat – a stinging blow around the ear. They fled. Nat, rescued from his mad Irish assailants, tried to run too, but was seized and being the only one left at hand was given further blows by the puce-cheeked nun.
Bright stepped in. ‘Please, Sister Martha, it wasn’t Nat who started it! The others were hitting him.’
Sister Martha held Nat prisoner, hauling him this way and that by his jacket and tearing it further. ‘You’d do well to think about the company you’re keeping, Bridget Maguire. Tis a bad end you’ll come to, dallying with such scalliwags.’
‘But Sister, it wasn’t Nat!’
‘Don’t you dare argue with me, child! Come to my room after registration tomorrow morning.’ The nun gave Nat a shove and swept off.
Nat disregarded his friend’s consternation, too worried about how his mother would view the torn jacket. ‘Can you sew?’
The freckled face was preoccupied, thinking of what was to happen tomorrow. Nat asked again if she could mend his jacket in order to deliver him from further wrath when he got home. Bright returned to the present. ‘Why, will your dad hit ye?’
‘I haven’t got one,’ Nat mumbled.
‘What?’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘I haven’t got a dad.’
‘Oh. Have ye got a mother?’
‘Course I have! She’ll go mad when she sees this.’
‘My mammy’ll sew it for ye. Away home with me.’
‘Won’t she mind?’
Bright shook her head. All guests were welcome in the Maguire household.
As they walked, Nat asked in a pained voice, ‘What did they hit me for? I’ve never even talken to ’em before.’
Bright expressed her disgust. ‘They just don’t like people who aren’t from our school. They’re eejits.’
Nat wanted to ask what an eejit was, but would not show his ignorance. Assuming it had something to do with the attacker’s appearance, he muttered, ‘I hate people with carroty hair.’
When they reached Bright’s house Nat loitered in the courtyard, which was strung with washing lines. Bright might want him to come in, but her mother wouldn’t. He had had doors slammed in his face before and was quite prepared for it to happen today. Therefore he was taken aback when a quietly spoken Irishwoman put her head round the jamb and invited in her soft brogue, ‘Come in, come in, we won’t be after biting ye.’ And he was even more delighted to hear Bright’s affirmation when Mrs Maguire asked, ‘Will your young friend be taking tea with us?’
Only two of Bright’s siblings – Eugene aged eleven and Patrick aged ten – were attendant. They barely looked at the visitor, too intent on arguing between themselves. The others, the eldest of whom was twenty, Bright told him, were at work. Though Mrs
Maguire was still capable of bearing children she had not produced a live one since Bright. There was an ancient looking crone in a black dress and shawl sitting in an armchair by the fire. Atop her silver hair was a tiny black bonnet tied with ribbon under her jaw. Her face was heavily wrinkled; one of the lines that ran from nose to mouth was so deep it looked like a scar from a knifewound. Her eyes were vacant until Bright’s cheerful hug, when she responded with warmth and patted her granddaughter’s cheek with a bony hand. It was obvious that Bright thought the world of her, although Nat could not imagine why. Somewhat repulsed by the old woman, he waited awkwardly until the girl broke free and told him, ‘This is me granny. Say hello to Nat, Gran!’ The old lady smiled and nodded, then reverted to her former trance. Bright kissed the furrowed cheek and came away. ‘She’s lovely, me gran. It’s just sometimes she goes away to a place in her head. So long as we keep her pipe filled with baccy she’s happy. I tell her all my troubles.’ This was said in a whisper to Nat alone. ‘She makes everything better.’
Nat wondered what troubles Bright could possibly have in a nice home like this. Smelly it might be with its neighbouring pigs, but it was a lot bigger than his own. Most of the tiled floor was covered in rugs, and the table by the window had a cloth over it and was surrounded by eight wooden chairs. Eight chairs! There was a sideboard in the room too, and in addition to the sofa on the opposite wall there were two armchairs, a footstool, plus cushions galore for the family’s comfort. It was a great contrast to Nat’s basic dwelling.
‘And where is it you’d be living, Nat?’ Mrs Maguire came from the scullery with a plate of bread and butter.
Nat was confused. Did Mrs Maguire mean where would he live if he had the choice?
‘Stop that now and wash your hands!’ She slammed the plate down on the table and dealt a clout to each of her boys who were still arguing. ‘Aren’t they the demons, Nat – sorry, I didn’t catch your answer.’
Unsure, Nat looked at Bright. ‘Where d’ye live?’ she asked him.
‘Hungate.’
‘Oh, would ye be after knowing Mrs Doyle in Garden Place?’
When Nat shook his head Mrs Maguire added, ‘Not to worry. Sit ye down and have a bite to eat. You boys stop arguing in there or your father will be told!’
After participating in a light meal of bread and butter, the Maguire brothers were sent out to play. Bright was ordered to fetch a pail of water from the standpipe in the yard – there was no tap in the house and the supply was shared with other cottages in the area. When she withdrew from the table Nat went with her, undesirous of being left alone with the adults. He discovered that this house was not standing back to back with another as was his own – as indeed were most of the houses round here – but had the benefit of both front and back door, if little else. The smell of pigs was appalling and followed them on their return to the house; the Maguires seemed oblivious. Whilst Bright and her mother washed the few pots Nat was left to sit with Granny Maguire, perched on the edge of his chair in anticipation of more questions, but the old lady appeared not even to know that he was there, happy to draw on her pipe. Nat began to relax, enjoying the smell of tobacco. Craning his neck, he peered through an open doorway. Apparently there was another downstairs room along a passageway.
Bright returned in time to catch his curiosity. ‘I’ll show ye the front parlour if ye like!’
Nat tried not to look impressed as she gave him a tour of the entire house, though it was hard not to utter exclamation on discovering there were three bedrooms!
Reseated at the table, Bright opened a book and tried to teach Nat how to read. Mrs Maguire smiled benevolently as she mended his jacket, inserting the odd question such as how old was he? Between attempts at reading, Nat snatched covert glances at the woman who seemed very old to be anyone’s mother. She was waif-thin like Bright, but this was the only similarity. Her hair was dull and tendrils of it had escaped the bun at her nape. Her eyes were an insipid blue. The front of her apron was stained and the rest was none too clean either, but she smiled on Nat and did not treat him in the normal patronizing role of adults, which was good enough for him. Nat liked her. She had an aura of serenity that made one blind to her unkempt presentation. ‘And when is your birthday, Nat?’
‘Haven’t got one.’
Mrs Maguire dropped her restive air to project astonishment. ‘Holy Souls, of course ye have! Tis a celebration of the day you were born. Ye have one every year.’
‘I don’t,’ said Nat.
‘Everybody has a birthday.’
‘Not me.’
Mrs Maguire rested the jacket on her lap and showed patience with the stubborn boy. ‘D’ye know when ye were born?’
‘Winter.’ Nat remembered his mother saying he had arrived a few weeks after Christmas along with a very heavy snowfall. He knew that he was eight because his mother had recently shouted after one of his truancies, ‘You’re eight years old, you should’ve got used to school by now!’ But he had never heard her mention the word birthday.
‘Did herself tell ye she’ll be nine in a couple o’ weeks?’ Mrs Maguire inclined her head at Bright, then took up her sewing again. Nat shook his own head, none too pleased at the information that the girl was older than him. ‘We’ll be having a little party. Would ye honour us with your presence?’
Stunned, Nat could only nod. He had never been to a party.
‘That’s good.’ Mrs Maguire smiled, then took a look at the clock and her face turned anxious. She handed over his mended jacket. ‘Well now, there’s your wee coat all done and dusted. You’ll want to be making tracks. Sure, your father will be home from work – where is it he’d be working, by the way?’
Nat pretended that he had not heard as he donned the jacket, without thanks for its repair. Words of gratitude did not spring easily to his tongue, so seldom did anyone do him a favour, but he smiled awkwardly to show he was pleased. Mrs Maguire was used to receiving little thanks from her own menfolk and made no comment on his lack of appreciation, merely repeating her last question as she thought he had not understood. Again, Nat played dumb though his cheeks were pink.
‘Nat doesn’t have a daddy,’ explained Bright.
‘Oh, tis terrible sorry I am.’ Mrs Maguire’s concern was genuine. ‘Has he been dead for long?’
‘He isn’t dead,’ mumbled Nat, and looked so uncomfortable that Mrs Maguire immediately guessed the situation and said quickly, ‘Oh well, and sure your poor mother will be missing ye, and Bright’s daddy will be home from his work on the railway any minute so we’ll not delay ye – don’t forget that party, now.’ During the last fifteen minutes, her nervous glances at the clock had grown more frequent, and now she went to check the oven to ensure that her husband’s meal would be ready for his homecoming, which led Nat into thinking that Mr Maguire must be some sort of ogre, hence he was not too unhappy to depart.
Bright said she would walk with him as far as the large draper’s store on the bridge. ‘Just let me put some more newspaper in me boots. They’re rubbing and causing awful blisters.’ Whipping them off, she raked the now crumbling paper from their insides and threw it on the fire. Screwing a fresh sheet into a ball she rammed it home into the toe, then put her foot in and folded another sheet round her heel, doing the same with the other foot. The boots were more snug now, though by tomorrow noon they would probably be slopping off again.
She and the boy picked their way through the malodorous Pig Market. Nat was about to take his leave at Foss Bridge when Bright saw her father come striding through the dusk and pointed him out, a man whose looks owed more to the Spaniard than the Celt. She waved. Mr Maguire checked his rolling gait to wave back, disconcerting Nat with his affability. Where was the imagined brute? Beneath the grime of sweat was a pleasant-looking fellow with a kind gleam in his eye and hardly enough meat on him to thump a flea. Bright went lolloping over the bridge to meet him. His haversack tumbled from his shoulder as he scooped her up in his arms as though he had not see
n her for a month. At this point two more of the Maguire daughters appeared, they too fussing over Bright and one of them giving her a bag of broken chocolate she had pilfered from the factory where both worked. Nat, consumed by envy, said a quiet hello to them before proceeding home. A wistful backwards glance saw the jaunty Mr Maguire carrying his little girl home on his shoulders.
* * *
Nat was glad of Mrs Maguire’s repair work on his jacket, for his mother was less than ecstatic when he got home. Maria sat unpicking a bustle in order to replace it with a more fashionable compact one, and as he came round the door she lunged in his direction with a pair of scissors.
‘Ten shillings I got fined for sticking up for you!’
Nat turned sullen and decided to punish her by not showing her his new watch.
Kendrew, who was there too, tapped Nat on the chest, a smirk on his face. ‘You should’ve seen her though, Nat. She gave the bluebottle a right contemptuous look and threw this half-sovereign on the counter as if it were a penny. By, his face were a picture!’
Nat ignored Sep and accused his mother, ‘You weren’t in when I came home for me dinner.’
Maria stopped ripping at the bustle and abandoned her frown. ‘Oh… yes, sorry. Sep took me for some new shoes as a treat to make up for the horrible morning. Do you like ’em?’ She lifted her hem to disport the Magpie shoes – black patent leather and white buckskin. They were far too small, dug into her heels and nipped her toes, but she hadn’t even contemplated leaving the pawnshop without them. Such exquisite footwear was worth a little discomfort.
Sep noted the distaste with which Nat beheld his gift. It was hard not to interpret. ‘He’s jealous ’cause I didn’t buy him a pair.’
Nat religiously ignored the man. ‘I’m off to a birthday party,’ he told his mother.
‘Are you indeed?’ Maria stopped cavorting. ‘Whose party is it, might I ask?’
Shoddy Prince Page 4
